Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

Edward was pushed into the passenger seat as the killer sat in the driver’s seat. Edward didn’t want to see the killer, but the killer grabbed Edward’s face and looked into his eyes. Edward tried to reason with the killer.

I have money. Credit cards, cash. You can have this car. It’s just a rental.

Edward could feel nothing but the knife at his throat. The hand holding the knife was not shaking. Edward wanted it to shake. He wanted the killer holding the knife to be afraid. If the killer in the driver’s seat felt scared, then Edward thought he had a chance. It was early evening. There should have been any number of people passing by. But there was nobody. Edward pleaded for his life.

What do you want?

The killer drew a very shallow cut across Edward’s throat. A small trickle of blood ran down his neck. Edward was crying now.

Please, I’m scared. Please. Don’t hurt me.

The killer pushed the blade a little deeper into Edward’s skin, drawing a few drops of blood.

I’m sorry. Please. I’m married. I have two sons. I’ll show you.

Edward reached for his wallet too quickly and the killer dug the blade into his throat. Slowly now, Edward pulled the wallet out and held it up. With one hand, he flipped it open and the pictures fell out accordion-style. Edward held the photographs up. His wife in her garden. She planted tomatoes every year, but she hated tomatoes, and gave them all away. His wife reading a John Grisham novel. His wife in close-up smiling, a slight gap between her front teeth. His sons as babies, one walking, the other lying on his back reaching for his own toes. His older son as quarterback, ball held tightly in his right hand, arm cocked back as if to throw a long pass. His younger son as middle linebacker, knees bent, face partially hidden beneath his helmet.

Oh, God, don’t hurt me. I have a family. Don’t hurt me.

The killer took a long, deep breath, tightened the grip on the knife, and pulled the blade across Edward’s throat. The blood fanned out in an arterial spray. The killer stabbed again and again. Paused briefly to stare at the white man’s body. Then stabbed until arms and back ached from the stabbing. Stabbed and cut, sliced and hacked. Stabbed until the dark blood absorbed all the available light, until the nearby traffic signals flared and then went dark. The killer leaned over close to Edward’s chest and feasted on his heart. Then, feeling depleted but unfulfilled, the killer cut the white man’s scalp away. The killer tucked the scalp into a pocket, dropped two owl feathers on the man’s lap, stepped out of the car, and disappeared.

MARIE KNOCKED ON THE back door of the homeless shelter in Belltown, a downtown Seattle neighborhood that was a strange combination of gentrified apartment buildings and dive bars, trendy restaurants and detox centers. Marie knocked again. No answer. Impatiently, she kicked the door with her boot. She was in a bad mood because she’d been forced out of Dr. Mather’s Native American literature class. He was a liar and she was being punished, if not seeing or hearing his rubbish could be called punishment. Still, she had been in class long enough to let the other students know the real story, and no matter what those white men said or did, she would never retreat. She’d contradict them. She’d get her degree and make them eat it. She’d beat them at all of their games.

Rumor had it that the Indian students were going to be asked to keep a lower profile until the Indian Killer was captured. Marie had no idea how Indian students could have kept any lower profile at the University without leaving it altogether. The whole situation infuriated her. She kicked at the shelter door again, was about to go around to the front when the door swung open. Boo sat in his wheelchair with a loaf of bread in his lap and a smear of mayonnaise on his forehead. He had obviously been constructing sandwiches for the van.

“Mayo?” she asked. “We can’t use mayo. We can’t afford it, and it goes bad.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Boo, smiling.

Marie had to smile back. Boo was a nice white guy, not intimidated by her in the least. He obviously had a crush on her, and had written poems for her. He had been helping her make sandwiches for a few months, though he was not all that dependable. When she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, she knew she would find him later, drunk or drugged, with a sheepish look on his face. But he knew a thousand jokes and was the fastest sandwich maker in the world when he was sober. Marie had once bought him a T-shirt that gave him that title, and Boo had hidden it away in a special place.

“How we doing?” asked Marie.

“I don’t know how you’ve been, but I’m doing fine. Just a couple dozen sandwiches to go.”

Marie rolled Boo into the kitchen, a relatively small space for the number of meals that were prepared there. Industrial sinks and ovens, stand-up freezer and two large refrigerators, a small door that led to the large pantry. A big table in the center of the kitchen was stacked high with sandwiches and sandwiches-to-be. For the thousandth time, Marie wondered why she kept returning to this depressing place.

“Hey,” said Boo. “Earth to Little Dove. You having a vision or something?”

“What did you say?” Marie was startled back to the kitchen.

“Are you communing with the Great Spirit?”

Boo often teased Marie about her supposedly genetic connection to Mother Earth and Father Sky. And she did enjoy a walk in the woods as much as anybody else. But the earth could take care of itself. She had learned that, every once in a while, the earth would cram a hurricane or earthquake down people’s throats as a little reminder. Other people, Indians and not, could run around on the weekends pretending to be what they thought was Indian, dancing half-naked and pounding drums, but Marie knew there were hungry people waiting to be fed. Dancing and singing were valuable and important. Speaking your tribal language was important. Trees were terrific. But nothing good happens to a person with an empty stomach. Suddenly, she laughed, pushed Boo’s chair into a corner between boxes, and left him stranded.

“Hey, hey,” he said. “No fair.”

Marie picked up a loaf of bread and lay down a row of slices. She quickly set a slice of bologna on each piece of bread, then threw another piece of bread on top of that. A very simple sandwich.

“Man,” said Boo after he finally managed to free himself and roll up beside her. “I don’t know how you expect us to choke down those dry sandwiches.”

“No mayo!” shouted Marie, surprised by the anger in her own voice.

“Listen to you,” said Boo, just as surprised. “You sound like that Indian Killer or something.”

“That’s not funny,” she said sharply.

Boo had been trying to lighten the mood but he realized his mistake. He tried to make up for it.

“I was just kidding. I mean, it’s not like you’re the Indian Killer, right?”

Marie stared at Boo. He swallowed hard.

“You’re not the Indian Killer, are you?”

Marie wanted to scream at him. She felt the anger in her belly and hands. But she could not lose her temper.

“I mean,” said Boo, “it’s not like a woman could have done those killings. A woman wouldn’t have kidnapped that kid.”

“Why not?” asked Marie.

“A knife just ain’t a woman’s weapon of choice.”

“Of course it is. Men kill with guns. Women kill with knifes. It all goes back to the beginning of time, Boo. Men hunted and women cooked. We use what we’ve been taught to use.”

“But these are men being killed. It would’ve taken a big man to kill them.”